


We were born sick

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: IT Fanfics [6]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pennywise doesn't exist, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bad Parents Zack & Sharon Denbrough, Bullying, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 10:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12555580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: Bill had recently come out as being interested in men. Or rather, he had been outed by Henry Bowers after the boy had broken into his locker and torn through his journal.In which Bill is outed as liking boys, and Richie has to pick up the pieces.





	We were born sick

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Make sure you read the warnings in the tags before proceeding with this fic! It’s a quick one-shot I’ve had in mind for a while.

Bill had recently come out as being interested in men. Or rather, he had been outed by Henry Bowers after the boy had broken into his locker and torn through his journal ( _not_ his diary; diaries were for girls). This was bad for the following reasons:

1) Derry was something of a conservative haven.

2) The students of Derry had made it their sole purpose in life to convince him he was an affront to their school and deserved to die, and they were making ground with that by harassing him wherever he went.

3) They’d found out he had a crush on Richie Tozier, and consequently, many of their insults were levelled at him just as much as they were Bill.

They’d been getting creative as of late. Instead of the standard ‘faggot’ or ‘girly boy’, they would go for things like ‘fairy in short-shorts’ (which he had promptly stopped wearing) or ‘gutter trash faggot’, and worst of all, ‘Richie Tozier’s dickwarmer’, which was particularly terrible because it was something Bill had in fact fantasized about. He was already struggling with the guilt of sullying their friendship with such sordid feelings on top of everything else.

It didn’t help that his parents appeared to give a rat’s ass about their sons dwindling mental health. They hadn’t so much as asked him how his day was since Georgie’s death, and that had been well over four years ago. If he were to tell them what was going on at school, he expected they would brush it off just like they did any other problems Bill approached them with. Bill had long since given up on trying to draw his parents out of their stupor.

The bullying got worse as the year progressed. Like an animal scenting vulnerability, his peers noticed their harassment chipping away at his resolve and set their jaws around his neck. They would make sly comments during class, spit on him in hallways, vandalize his locker and desk, and humiliate him in front of his friends. Their insults never made the transition into physical harm, but Henry Bowers and his gang were more than happy to fill that role.  

He’d often go home with bruises and scrapes and a bloody nose. On one occasion, Bowers had managed to break his middle and pointer fingers by stomping on them and he’d had to tape them together for an entire month before they regained functionality. His parents didn’t once ask why his fingers were taped together. They did ask about the other injuries, on occasion, but it was done in such a perfunctory way that it was somehow worse than being ignored, and they never had any follow up questions once Bill gave them an excuse.

The Losers tried to comfort him. Ben told him Freddie Mercury had been gay, and if he’d been gay, how could gay people possibly be bad. Beverly assured him that she still loved him no matter what. Eddie awkwardly stated that he would always stand by Bill, even if he got AIDS, and Bill had appreciated the sentiment despite the awkward phrasing. Mike hugged him and told him about a cousin that was gay. Richie offered little in the way of words, but he invited Bill to play Streetfighter with him whenever he thought Bill was sad, and that was enough.

He tried not to let the bullying get to him. Just brush it off, he told himself. Move on. Let it go. Focus on the people who love you; they might have been outnumbered, but the intensity of their love should have made up for that. If Bill let the harassment get to him, it would be an insult to his friends’ efforts. He told himself angrily and imploringly that his friends were enough for him to be happy, but the harassment got to him, anyway.

He stopped writing his journal. He stopped writing, full stop. He pulled out of the writer’s club, as well as every other club he was involved in. He stopped attending extracurricular activities, knowing Bowers and his gang would be waiting for him when he left the school. He ate less, slept less, and spent most of his free time lying in bed in an effort to escape his melancholy. He was frustrated with his own misery – he wanted desperately for things to go back to how they had been before Bowers had outed him – but he was helpless to do anything about it. He couldn’t make the student body accept him any more than he could make himself stop being a queer.

And just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, they did.

Patrick Hockstetter accosted him on his way to the cafeteria and dragged him to the bleachers. Bill had thought it would be for a customary beating, until Patrick flipped open a butterfly knife.

“So you like boys, huh?” Patrick asked, his voice deceptively soft. Bill’s heart fluttered wildly in his chest as the blade descended to his neck, nicking the pale stretch of skin. Blood soaked into the collar of his shirt.

“I’m s-s-s-sorry,” he babbled, terrified, his shoulders bumping one of the pillars holding up the bleachers. “I w-won’t, I’ll s-s-stop, I p-promise-“

Patrick shushed him by covering his mouth with his long, bony fingers. “I’m not _complaining_ , Denbrough. It’s a good thing you like boys.” His hand withdrew, sliding down to the waistband of Bill’s jeans, tugging at the loops. The air in Bill’s lungs barrelled out of him in a gasp. “Means we can get to know each other better without you making a _fuss_ over it.”

The teeth of his zipper made a soft clicking noise as Patrick pulled it down and a rush of nausea brought bile to the back of Bill’s throat. He felt Patrick’s hand inside his underwear and cool lips on his own and wanted to scream. It was only through some quick manoeuvring when Patrick had lowered his knife that Bill escaped, racing across the oval into the hallway, scrambling for his locker. He dropped half his books as he stuffed the contents of it into his backpack, intending to return home and never, ever go back to school. He didn’t even notice that his desperate scrambling had caught the attention of someone leaving the boys toilets.

“Bill?”

He looked up, eyes wide and glassy, and saw Richie standing in the doorway to the boy’s toilets. Remembering that his zip was still undone, he hastily pulled it back up.

“Are you okay, man?” Richie took a tentative step closer. “What’s on your neck- are you _bleeding_?”

Bill shook his head, throwing his half-full backpack over his trembling shoulders. He knew if he tried to reply, he would only break into tears. He didn’t want Richie to see him bawling like a baby.

“Bill- Bill, come on, don’t run off,” said Richie as Bill turned away. Richie took faster steps now, closing the space between them. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

Bill tried to flee, but was stopped by a gentle grip on his forearm. He hung his head between his shoulders, his gaze fixed on his shoes.

Richie withdrew a crumpled-up packet of tissues from his jacket pocket. “Allergies,” he offered as explanation, extracting a tissue and holding it to Bill’s neck. Bill let Richie clean his wound without complaint, his lips pressed tight together so he wouldn’t utter a sound. He was so close to snivelling like a child that he could feel the tension of restraining it knotting in his throat, making it hard to breathe and hard to think. He squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t shed tears.

“I’ll prank the hell out of whoever hurt you, Bill,” said Richie, so painfully gentle. After scrunching up the sullied tissue, Richie’s arm slid to his shoulders, drawing him in, and his resolve faltered under the kindness. Part of him hated Richie for it, for being so kind, for making Bill so weak, and he hated him even more when the tears started falling.

A sob tore past his clenched teeth and Richie hooked their fingers together, pulling him out of the hallway and into an empty classroom, seating him upon a desk. Bill broke down into ugly, snotty, red-faced tears, then, and buried his face in his arms so Richie wouldn’t see.

Bill cried even harder when Richie sat down beside him and coiled his lanky arms around his quivering shoulders. He didn’t prompt replies from Bill while Bill wept. He waited patiently, a warm, reassuring presence that didn’t budge an inch no matter how messy and wet Bill got.

Once he had exhausted his tears, Bill finally found the courage to speak.

“I c-c-c-can’t d-do it a-anymore, Richie,” he whispered. “I c-can’t fucking d-d-do this anymore. I c-c-can’t live l-like this.”

Richie encouraged him to continue by stroking his quivering back.

“It’s t-too much. I can’t do it a-anymore. I just – I wh-want things to guh-guh-go back to n-normal. Things weren’t g-great at hu-h-home, but at least I had f-f-fun at school, you know?” He wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeves of his jacket. “Now I’m m-m-miserable at h-home and I’m m-miserable here and things ju-j-just keep getting wuh-w-worse. I’m so s-s-sick of being m-miserable all the t-time.”

“Jesus, Bill,” murmured Richie. “I didn’t know things were getting so bad.”

“It’s been b-bad for a while,” Bill admitted. “I d-d-didn’t want you g-guys to worry, so I d-dealt with it.”

Richie had plucked free another tissue and was now wiping away the remainder of the blood. This time, Bill lifted his neck to accommodate him.

“But it’s j-just too m-m-much now. I d-don’t want t-to anymore.” He swiped at his eyes with a hand, trying to catch the tears before they fell. They were red and puffy and hurt when he blinked.

“I don’t blame you.” Richie withdrew his bloody tissue and threw it in a nearby trash can. “If you wanna pull out of school, change to a different one, stay in this one, whatever – we’re all behind you, okay? We’ll be your friends no matter what.” He gave Bill’s shoulder a hard little squeeze. “We’re here to help you, man. Let us.”

Bill sniffed. “I duh-d-don’t want to g-go back to school.” He didn’t particularly want to pull out so close to his senior year, either, but what else could he do?

(There were other cloying thoughts telling him there was another, far more permanent way out, a way out that would ensure he never felt any kind of pain ever again, but those thoughts were too frightening to consider for long.)

“R-Richie…” He hesitated for a considerable length of time before he continued. Richie made no attempt to hurry him. “S-sometimes I ju-j-just want to d-disappear,” he admitted, his voice soft and cracking. “M-m-maybe not d-die, but j-just… stop e-e-existing for a w-while, if t-that makes s-sense. My p-parents p-probably wouldn’t even n-notice.”

“C’mon Bill, that’s not true.”

“It is. They k-k-know I killed G-Georgie and-“

“Jesus, Bill!” said Richie. “That wasn’t your fault! All you did was give him a newspaper boat! Your parents blaming you is _bullshit_ , okay? All of this is bullshit. You’re one of the nicest guys I know. You don’t deserve any of this.” Richie grasped either side of his face and brought their foreheads together. “You don’t deserve any of this, Bill. Not a damned thing. You’re a good kid.”

Bill took an unsteady breath and blinked away a fresh bout of tears. “Then w-why is it h-happening?”

“Bad things happen to everyone, even the best of people.” Richie’s thumb stroked along his cheek. “And you _are_ the best of people, Bill. I’m gonna sound like a complete tool, but I love you, man, and I think the world of you. I’ve pretty much been hero-worshipping you since I was like, seven.”

Despite himself, Bill laughed wetly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” said Richie. “When I heard you had a crush on me, it was pretty much the best day of my life. I was tempted to book you for the prom in advance right then and there.”

Bill’s eyebrows shot up. He’d been under the impression Richie hadn’t reciprocated his feelings. “W-wait, what?”

“I like you too, dumbass,” mumbled Richie, his cheeks developing a dusting of pink.

“W-why didn’t you t-tell me?”

“And make things _worse_ for you?” Richie drew back, hands still cradling Bill’s face. His palms had turned warm and slippery. “I know you damn well, Bill. I saw you beating yourself up over what little bullying I currently get just by associating with you and I knew if I asked you out, you would’ve broken it off eventually just to ‘protect’ me or some shit.” He snorted. “Besides, there was the chance people would just brush it off as Bowers’ being a dick and things would go back to normal, and I didn’t want to deprive you of that opportunity just so I could inspect your fine ass at a closer proximity.”

At that, Bill blushed furiously, his skin turning the same shade as his red hair. “Less tuh-t-trash in the mouth, t-trashmouth.”

“Right, right, sorry. Serious situation.” Richie smiled apologetically. “Speaking of serious, what the hell did Bowers do to your neck?”

Bill grimaced. “It’s n-not that bad.”

“Bill,” began Richie, his tone gentle but serious. “Did Bowers or one of his dipwads try to cut you up like they did Ben? Or try to _kill_ you? Because that cut…”

“They d-don’t have the b-balls.”

“They used a _knife_ on you,” said Richie. “That _is_ serious, Bill.”

Bill swallowed. He supposed it was, though he didn’t particularly want to talk about it. Boys weren’t supposed to get sexually assaulted, especially not by other boys. It was unheard of. “It w-wasn’t Bowers,” he said quietly.

“Who was it, then?” asked Richie, insistent. “This is grounds for expulsion. They can overlook the bullying, but bringing a fucking knife to school and using it on a student? They’re not gonna twiddle their thumbs on that.”

Bill gnawed on the corner of his lip. If Patrick was allowed to remain in the school, there was the potential for him to go after another kid, and there was no guarantee that kid would escape like Bill had. Knowing that was a possibility, Bill couldn’t justify not at least _trying_ to get Patrick expelled. He wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing he’d let his cowardice put other kids in harm’s way.

“It was P-Patrick,” he said, voice dropping in volume. “He t-t-tried to… he…”

“Yeah?”

Bill clenched and unclenched his hands a few times before he continued. “He c-came onto m-me, tried to t-t-take off my p-pants. P-p-p-put his h-hand down there.” The words came out in an almost unintelligible slur, but Richie seemed to understand enough to be surprised and disgusted.

“I’m gonna kick his ass,” Richie growled.

“Please don’t,” stammered Bill, grasping beseechingly at Richie’s jacket sleeve. There was no way Richie would win in a physical altercation against Patrick. The boy had well over a foot on both of them.

“I’ll smash his car, then!” Richie crowed. “That’ll teach the fucker!” He pulled away from Bill to start pacing, arms swinging at his sides in agitation. “We’ll get him expelled, of course, and then we’ll smash his car with bats!”

“C-c-can’t you g-go to j-juvie for stuff like that?”

“Only if you get caught.”

Bill tittered. “I su-s-suppose that would be oh-okay.” Bill had never been much of a rule breaker, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of enacting a little revenge upon Patrick. It improved his glum mood to think of the bastard finding his car beyond repair.

“Glad you agree,” said Richie, still pacing. “I’d like to do worse to that fucker, but wrecking his education and car will just have to suffice.” In a mutter, he added, “What a _major_ fucking creep. I always knew something was off about him.”

Bill slid away from the desk to insert himself into Richie’s path, prompting the boy to stop. His hands twittered nervously at his sides. “Since you l-l-like me b-back, are w-we, u-u-uh…”

“Obviously,” said Richie, leaning over to give Bill’s lips a peck. Bill was so surprised – pleasantly so – that he gasped against Richie’s lips. Heat crawled up the collar of his shirt.

“Now…” Richie hooked his thumbs into Bill’s beltloops and drew their hips together. “Bill Denbrough,” he said, grinning. “I insist on being a proper gentleman, so will you take me as your lawfully wedded boyfriend? To have and to hold and all that other shit?”

Bill snorted, wiping his cheeks dry on the sleeve of his jacket. “I d-do.”

“You’ve made me the happiest man alive, darling!” Richie cried, surging forward to catch him around the waist, heaving him up into the air and giving him a spin. “Off to our honeymoon! Otherwise known as the office!”

For the first time in months, Bill laughed.

* * *

It took all the Losers and their parents (save for Eddie’s and Bill’s, who remained oblivious for obvious reasons) coming together to get Patrick expelled. The school was hesitant to oblige their demands, at first. Homophobia and assault was the sort of thing you brushed under the rug when it was between students, but they eventually relented when Mr and Mrs Tozier threatened to send the story to a contact in the media. Whether or not that contact actually existed, nobody knew, but it didn’t matter either way, because it worked. Patrick Hockstetter was evicted from the school, and on his senior year no less. Bill had the pleasure of seeing him empty out his locker early the following morning. He glared at Bill as Bill passed, but said nothing.

With Patrick expelled and he and Richie dating, things started to improve. Richie was a _fantastic_ spokesperson for gay rights. He founded an LGBT club that grew to have a total of eight members over three weeks (granted, some members chose to _covertly_ attend meetings). A modest but respectable amount. With eight people out and their friends becoming strong, vocal allies, the bullying and harassment waned. It waned even more so when Mike, who was a prized player on their football team, started pulling people aside for a very cold chat should they so much as look at his friends wrong. He’d attempted this a few times before, of course, but it was only now that the remaining members of the Bowers gang had been effectively neutered through the threat of failing their final year that it started having an effect. The bullying was still there, but it was tolerable.

Bill started to spend most of his time at Richie’s house. The Tozier’s accepted him with open arms, showing him all the love and compassion he’d been deprived of under his own roof. They treated him as though he were their own child.

There was still one thing left to do, however.

“Are you ready?” Richie asked, hunkered down in the bushes surrounding the Hockstetter residence. They’d been waiting since one thirty for Patrick’s bedroom light to go out, and finally, after ten minutes of sitting in the dark, it had. Patrick rarely went to bed before one. Bill knew this because this wasn’t the first night they’d spent outside his house. They’d been preparing for this day for the better part of a week.  

Bill shuffled in closer, pressing their shoulders together. “Ready.”

They crept across the asphalt and over to Patrick’s dark blue Ford Escort. It wasn’t the most well-preserved of vehicles, with a caved in front light and dings and scratches on the boot and hood, but it was about to get even less so. By the time they were done with it, it would have no use other than scrap metal.

Richie withdrew a swiss army knife from his jacket – a gift he’d received from his father – and thrust it into the front wheel, tearing it down with some difficulty. The tire immediately began to deflate. While Richie was occupied with that, Bill carefully and quietly smashed in the driver window and undid the park break so the vehicle would sluggishly heave forward. The destroyed wheels prevented it from going far. It gave them just enough distance so Patrick wouldn’t hear what they were about to do.

With the car a little way down the street, Richie threw a bat across to Bill and raised his own high above his head. “On three.”

One…

Two…

They brought their bats down at the same time and the windshield caved in with a great crack that echoed down the street. Bill knew they wouldn’t have long before someone stepped out to investigate, so they brought their bats down again, and again, smashing headlights and denting metal, breaking windows and sending the side mirrors flying down the street. Richie went to town on the rear of the car, grinning wildly as he struck it hard enough to send the rear bar clattering to the asphalt. The gentle light from a nearby streetlamp lit up his bared teeth.

Bill’s heart hammered as Richie’s hazel eyes rose to his, almost luminescent under the light. Sweat had gathered at his hairline. He was trembling and panting.

Bill had never been more in love with him.

He reached for Richie’s hand and together they ran, belting down the street and toward salvation, their bats scraping along the ground. If anyone had come out to investigate, they either didn’t see the fleeing boys, and didn’t care enough to yell after them.

They held tight onto one another until they reached the school, where they collapsed upon the springy grass of the oval. Both of them laughed from relief and exhilaration.

There was no way Patrick was going to be able to salvage his car.

Richie released his bat and crawled over to where Bill was sprawled out and panting. He slid on top of him, his glasses askew and slipping down his nose, his eyes wide and wild and his smile infectious. Bill threw his arms around his shoulders and dragged him down into a searing kiss, panting hard against his lips. Richie cupped the back of his head, fingers drifting through the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck, and kissed ravenously back.

When Bill dislodged to inhale a lungful of chilly night-time air, Richie’s lips drifted to the corner of his mouth, and then his jaw, breath cool against his heated skin. His warm hands settled on either side of Bill’s torso.

“This is so gay,” Richie whispered, and Bill laughed.

Bill pecked his lips. “That’s k-kind of the point.”


End file.
